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Her Time

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I opened my mouth and she fled
‘Bout time.
Now those words that were at the tip of my tongue
are crushed to pieces
and when i breath, they will travel with the wind
until it plays around her blowing hair
before being swept inside her hands
and becoming permanent lines on her palms
Later, when her wrinkles overlap those lines
she will know
There’s no sound
but the hissing wind in the wild trees
And i see her falling, as she didn’t then


 




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